


Illumination

by lindenmae



Series: Bless me, Father [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:09:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindenmae/pseuds/lindenmae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knelt before his altar, head bowed in pious prostration before his Lord, and he prayed.  His prayers passed his lips as tumbling murmurs as he asked for forgiveness, for himself and his family, and grace and guidance.  He thought of red hair and peculiar red eyes, the eyes of a man with too many demons to bear alone and too little faith to ask for help, and his gut kicked even as he focused his attentions.  He did not ask forgiveness for himself.  He could not but he could ask it for his friends, for the Storm Guardian who would not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illumination

**Author's Note:**

> Dub/con, violent imagery, heresy

Candlelight bathed the room in dancing shadows and a muted orange glow that haunted his peripheral vision as it bounced against the plain walls of his room.  He knelt before his altar, head bowed in pious prostration before his Lord, and he prayed.  His prayers passed his lips as tumbling murmurs as he asked for forgiveness, for himself and his family, and grace and guidance.  He thought of red hair and peculiar red eyes, the eyes of a man with too many demons to bear alone and too little faith to ask for help, and his gut kicked even as he focused his attentions.  He did not ask forgiveness for himself.  He _could_ not but he could ask it for his friends, for the Storm Guardian who _would_ not.

On nights like this, when he was left behind to wait for hours, he gained bruises on his knees and lost feeling in his feet.  When his family members finally returned, trooping in sore and bloodied and broken, he laid cooling hands against their skin and bathed their wounds and kept his tongue behind his teeth.  It was a sin, his silent approval of their actions, but they were his family and he loved them and so he prayed for them when they could not pray for themselves.  And afterwards he would sometimes sit alone with Giotto in the mansion’s tiny chapel until the sky turned the same shade as Giotto’s flame with the sunrise.  He knew that Ugetsu played his flute in reverence of his sun goddess and that Lampo whimpered for his father in his sleep.  He didn’t know if Alaude adhered to any religion at all and he could only wonder if Daemon Spade knew the meaning of prayer.  He prayed for them all, hoping that God would hear their voices even if they didn’t believe. 

On this night the candles burned low and wax built up on the floorboards where it had dripped during the long hours that Knuckle had spent in supplication.  Hours after the rest of the Guardians had retired and only the two who had been given the most recent mission had yet to return, and it was always a gamble if Alaude even would, Knuckle hadn’t moved from his suppliant post.  When the door burst open with enough force to make the candlelight flicker, though he was hardly surprised, he would not admit he was relieved. 

“Were you praying for _me_?  I’m touched.”  The smell of gunpowder and sweat and blood permeated the room and made Knuckle’s stomach churn.  He didn’t know how the Storm Guardian always managed to invade his defenses so damned easily.  With nothing more than a sly glance G. could make Knuckle’s walls crumble like a fortress built from sand.

“Someone must.”  Knuckle spoke evenly as he slowly rose to his feet.  His joints cracked and he winced as blood rushed into his deadened limbs. 

Knuckle’s cassock hung heavy on his shoulders as he turned to face his greatest temptation, as if the cloth could sense his weakness and foresee his next fall from grace.  G.’s features looked sharp in the candlelight.  Illuminated by the flickering fire, the flame tattoo that decorated the man’s face stood out sharply against his angular, Roman features and pale skin.  He looked a shade away from death but Knuckle attributed it to the poor lighting and schooled his expression to match the disdain he truly wished he felt.

G. was on him before he could truly appreciate the man’s appearance, hands fisted in the black silk of his priestly robes and lips dangerously close to his pulse.  He could not help but be aware of how the man clung to him, hanging on his frame as if he could not support himself and his lip curled in disapproval of the strong scent of wine on his breath. 

“Are you drunk?”  Knuckle hissed as G.’s grip tightened against his chest and his glazed eyes bounced across the priest’s face. 

G.’s eyebrows furrowed and he focused his glare enough to shoot daggers straight into Knuckle’s gut.  “Don’t pretend you were worried about me, _Father_.  I have no patience for your false empathy.”

“It is not false, you idiot!”  Knuckle made the mistake of reaching out to touch the Storm Guardian in return, cupping the back of his neck with a cool palm.  G.’s skin felt clammy to the touch and feverish with either the alcohol or the aftermath of battle. 

“How benevolent of you.”  G. whispered against the bare skin of Knuckle’s neck as he found his balance and his hands loosened their grip in his robes and began to trace the outline of his body through the silk.  Knuckle shuddered under the ministrations and made to grab G.’s wrists but his movements were far slower than he was capable of and from the appreciative glint in the Storm’s eye, he could see that G. was all too aware of how little Knuckle was trying to push him away this time.

“Will you hear my confession, _Father_?”  G.’s hot breath tickled the fine hairs on Knuckle’s neck and shot waves of heat to his groin.  “Will you wash away my sins like you do the rest of them?  Or am I so far lost than even your farce of piety cannot bring me back?”

“You mock my faith because you have none of your own.”  Knuckle managed to choke out as G.’s lips kissed wet and heavy across his throat.  G. chuckled and bunched the hem of Knuckle’s cassock in one hand as his other reached beneath the folds to palm the priest’s erection and shame him further.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…” the Storm whispered against his lips as his hand wormed its way past the waistline of Knuckle’s slacks to firmly grip bare flesh and squeeze.

Knuckle shuddered and a sob escaped his throat as his already sore knees gave out and brought him back to a knee.  G. followed with a swaying grace that made Knuckle dizzy to watch.  The candlelight bounced off of his face and made him appear as ferociously handsome as the demons that Knuckle vowed to stand against. 

“I killed a man today… many men.  I shot them between the eyes and didn’t even flinch as they died.”  G.’s words were hard but his eyes were vast pools of sorrow that spoke to Knuckle in volumes that words could never express. 

“Don’t.”  Knuckle begged in a voice that barely contained inflection.  G.’s hand stroked his erection as the other fumbled with his own belt.  His movements were stuttered and shaky and his eyes slid in and out of focus but the determination, the dogged drive that made the man who he was and the most important follower and friend that Vongola Primo would ever have, was still there and still strong and it shook Knuckle to his core.

When G. freed his own cock and fit one fine fingered hand around them both, Knuckle cried out and involuntarily slid his arms around the other man.  G.s lips pressed hard against his and Knuckle made no effort to fight it, too overcome with another failure, the kind that only the Storm Guardian could bring upon him. 

Knuckle spent long hours praying for himself and for his family.  He prayed for salvation for those that he cared about.  He prayed for forgiveness for the atrocious things his loved ones were forced to do and he was forced to accept.  He prayed for absolution and guidance and strength and most of all he prayed for the ability to reconcile the emotions he felt when faced with the Storm Guardian.  Most of all he prayed for the ability to understand how he could hate with such a fervor, someone whom he loved with such a passion.

As G.’s skilled fingers drove them both over the edge of their passion, Knuckle cried out and buried his face in the Storm Guardian’s strong shoulder to hide the shame written plainly across his face.  G. shoved him away with little pretense and his jellied limbs did nothing to hold him upright.  He watched as the Storm Guardian curled in on himself and tried to stifle what could have been either a sob or a strangled laugh.  When Knuckle raised his hands to his face he was hardly surprised, and not the least bit relieved to see them coated with blood.  
  
 


End file.
